


Inevitable Conclusions

by apliddell



Series: An Extraordinary Genius for Minutiae [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Johnlock, FIx It, Ginger Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sherlock Holmes return after Reichenbach, The Empty House, Unresolved Sexual Tension, lesbian mary morstan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 09:23:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9484814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: The timing isn't perfect. I know that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheBoredWriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBoredWriter/gifts).



> Retroactively dedicated to my darling Kate, for reasons I hope she understands.

The timing isn’t perfect. I know that. The timing couldn’t be perfect. Two years gone, and I don’t know him as I knew him. Not down to his comings and goings. Before I might have timed him to the minute. But it is a good enough plan without that sort of thing. He does like me to surprise him (little crook of his mouth when I make him start)(not everybody likes that sort of thing, but he does).

Stand in the recess between Speedy’s and the flat (my flat)(our flat) to prepare for his appearance. Set my violin case at my feet and settle the tatty flat cap a little lower over my eyes (no chance Mycroft won’t recognise me if he spots me on CCTV but no matter). 

Play through the scales first. I haven’t touched my violin in two years either. Feels rather dreamy to have it so close at last. The smell of the wood and rosin. The vibrations under my jaw. Sharp strings under my fingertips. I am a little stiff and clumsy, but my instrument is forgiving. Go into a Bach medley, and it is not the most beautiful music I have ever made, but it is serviceable, and there will be time for marvellous in our future. 

I don’t know his tread anymore. Not amongst a river of strangers, and he is almost on top of me before I see him. Try and swallow my panic, but my fingers shake, and I go into my next piece so abruptly that my violin bleats and squawks in protest. 

It’s a little nothing of a tune that I play. An original composition that hardly even merits the term. It’s only a minute or so, and not very interesting. I’d play it to myself sometimes when I was puzzling over something. He used to call it ‘Thinky.’ It’d stick in his head. He’d hum or whistle it hours later. Flattering. 

There is a woman with him. Not near him as I first thought, but with him. John Watson stops dead in his tracks ten paces from me, and the pretty little woman at his shoulder stops too and raises a hand to his elbow, “John? What’s wrong?”

“Can you hear that?” John looks about him, and his eyes land on me. My mouth goes dry. I play on. John brushes past the touch on his arm and marches up to me, his face studiously casual. He stops at my violin case, one hand in his pocket (the left)(hiding his tremour). For a moment, I think he’s only going to tip me a quid and walk on. But he nudges the case aside, and steps closer. Very close. At the last moment, I find I can’t look at him. I shut my eyes, and even under my eyelids, they sting and run. Lower my head. But as I do, I feel him reach out toward me. I cringe back, but John lifts the cap off my head. 

I open my eyes, “John.”

“You again, eh?” John murmurs almost tenderly, a rather anxious smile tilting his mouth. “Am I really so bad off?” He cuts a glance over at the woman behind him. “I’m not going to try it again. I know it was stupid. Violin’s a nice touch, though. That’s new.” 

I swallow, “John?” My voice trembles. I lower my instrument (want to touch him)(stupid plan stupid stupid stupid stupid mistake). “This is not in your mind.”

John’s eyes fill as he looks into mine. He drops the cap at his feet and reaches out, cups my skull, glides his hand down to the join of my throat and jaw, and his cool, soft fingers find and rest on my speeding pulse. 

“Mary!” John does not look away from me when he calls out. 

His companion hurries forward and gasps when she’s in full view of my face, “Oh my god! You’re him! You’re Sherlock Holmes!”

John sags at her words. His eyelids flutter. I tuck my violin and bow under my arm and reach out for him. John sways. I slip an arm round his shoulders. He grasps my coat sleeve and lets me hold him upright. 

“Jesus!” Mary reaches for John’s free arm. “John?” John nods and opens his mouth but seems unable to make himself speak. Mary looks at me, “Help me get him inside.” I nod numbly, hitch John a bit closer to me. He clings to my sleeve, his chest rising and falling against my side as I help him the few steps into 221 Baker Street. 

…

I had already started to feel a bit more myself when they got me into 221B and helped me onto the sofa. Mary sat down next to me and checked my pulse, then shined a penlight in my eyes. 

“Not a stroke then, just a shock,” she said cheerily, patting me on the shoulder. 

“Give it time,” I rasped. 

Mary laughed, “You okay? Need anything?”

I cleared my throat, “No. And er. No.” I looked round for Sherlock. He was lurking next to the mantel, looking rather terrified. 

“I’m sorry,” he said when he saw me looking. 

I clenched my fist, “You’re sorry?”

“Right this is none of my business,” Mary announced, her arms raised as if in surrender. “I’m going out.” Mary rose, grimacing sympathetically. “See you in a bit, sweetie. You just let me know if you want me to get tough with this one,” she cocked her head to indicate Sherlock, who was still wringing his hands by the mantel. 

I tried to smile back, “Thanks Mary. See you later.” 

“Text me if you need me. Just say the word, and I can karate him into next week.” She pulled on her jacket and picked up her bag. 

“Thanks Mary, got a handle on it.” Mary walked out, giving me another little pat on my shoulder as she went by. I listened to her descending footfall with my eyes on the carpet. 

When I looked up again, Sherlock had silently crossed the room and stood, swaying anxiously in front of me. Close enough to touch. 

“Sorry,” he said quickly when I met his eye. “Sorry again. Sorry. I’m sorry.” 

I tried to unclench my jaw, “Okay.” 

Sherlock wet his lips, “Two things.”

“Yeah?” It came out as a gruff whisper, though it wasn’t meant to. “What?”

“Erm. It seemed so. Simple and clear. I practised in my head. I knew just what I had to say, and it’s all gone now.”

I folded my arms, “Two things,” I prompted. 

“First. Well. Maybe it should be second. I don’t know it’s.” Sherlock trailed off and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Sorry I’m a bit scattered.” 

“I’ve got all night.” 

Sherlock made for his chair and hovered near it before glancing up at me. I got up and took my own chair, then nodded to him to indicate he ought to sit as well. “Thank you,” Sherlock sat and smoothed the lapels of his coat. A tan rain coat that didn’t look like his usual sort of thing at all. Something that might have come out of his disguises cupboard. In tandem with his shorn reddish hair, he looked rather like a street urchin wrapped in found clothes. 

“What’s this coat?” I pointed at it. 

Sherlock looked down at his chest, “Charity shop. Mycroft’s got my other. I haven’t been to see him yet. I wanted to come to you first.”

“To explain yourself,” I reminded him. 

Sherlock nodded, “To explain myself. John, I.” He leaned forward, hands clasped near his chin and began to speak very quickly, “He was going to kill you. Moriarty. Unless I jumped. He told me so. He was going to kill you. There were snipers on you and on Lestrade and on Mrs Hudson. And you were on your way there already, and I had to. He would have murdered you like Carl Powers and the museum guard and the old woman and all the others. It was the only way I could save you. He’d have. He’d have killed you.” I let him gabble til he ran out of words and then he just sat rocking slightly and rubbing his hands together. “Sorry,” Sherlock said again after a long silence. 

I nodded. “There was a second thing.” 

“I,” Sherlock reached out toward me but dropped his hand halfway along, “I tried to give you a clue. It was a magic trick. A disappearing act. I thought.” He hung his head, “I wished. That you might have. I almost. I’d almost been in touch a thousand times. I thought you might.”

“Thought I might what?” My voice was choked. 

“Come and find me. Or try. Put yourself in danger. In more danger. Because of me. I. I had to save you, John. I had to. I’ve been over and over it in my head so many times-”

“Thought I’d do something stupid? So this is my fault?”

“No! I just. I didn’t want you getting sunk in my muck. It wasn’t. It was my problem, John; it wasn’t your problem.”

“Not my problem?” I palmed the arms of my chair, “You know for a genius, you can be remarkably thick.”

Sherlock frowned, “What?” 

“Sherlock! I shot a man dead to save your life the day after I met you! I let you almost blow us up to stop Moriarty! You think I’d want to be saved like that! You think I’d want you to drown in the muck when I might have helped pull you out of it? I watched you die, and it was a lie! You let me grieve. For two years! How could you do that?” 

Sherlock made a little gasp something like a sob and clasped his hands, “John, I’m sorry. I would never have done if there had been another way. Please. Forgive me, please. For the hurt that I’ve caused you.”

“You think you can just. Ask? And it’s easy, just like that.” I clicked my fingers. 

Sherlock sunk his head into his hands and gripped his hair. “No.”

“Christ.” I sighed. “I wanted you back. I wanted you. Not to be dead.” 

“I know,” Sherlock’s voice was thick. “I know.” 

“And now you’re being so. Good and nice. So I’ve got to say it’s fine, even though you’ve behaved. Abominably.” 

“You don’t have to say it’s fine,” Sherlock said dully. “If it isn’t, it isn’t.”

“The thing is,” I waited for him to look up at me. “I want it to be. But it isn’t.”

“Okay,” said Sherlock. 

We were silent a long time.

“Well, I suppose. I should be going.” Sherlock rose from his chair, rubbing at his clipped hair and looking more like a lost child than I’d ever seen him. 

“Going? Going where?” I pressed my fist into my thigh, knowing it wouldn’t be enough to stop Sherlock spotting the tremour. 

“Well. It’s late. And. I’ve got to break into my brother’s house before the rain starts, and that will take me a little time.”

“You don’t.” I rose also, “You don’t want to stay?”

Sherlock blinked, “You don’t want me to go?”

“Well it’s your flat,” I pointed out. 

“Not anymore. It’s yours now. Yours and Mary’s. Mary wants to karate me into next week; she won’t want me sleeping on your sofa.” 

“Well you can’t have the sofa. Not unless you want to sleep on top of.” I paused and cleared my throat, “The sofa’s mine, actually. But your bedroom is empty.”

Sherlock frowned, “The sofa? You’re not sleeping with your girlfriend?”

“Mary isn’t my girlfriend; she’s just my flatmate.”

“Oh.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows and flicked his eyes over me, deducing. “Well, give it time. Women always do seem to find you attractive.” 

“No, we’re just mates! She’s gay.” 

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose even higher, “Gay? Is she? And you, er, worked that out for yourself, did you?”

“No, she told me. She’s out.” I stopped short, feeling rather conspicuous.

“Ah,” Sherlock dropped his eyes. 

“Anyway, Mary’s bedroom is upstairs, and you can just. Sleep in your room. All your erm. Your things are all in there still.” 

Sherlock’s eyes were bright when he looked up, “Thank you, John.” I shrugged. “Well. Good night. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Right. Good night. Sherlock.”


	2. Chapter 2

For the first time in years, I wake in my own bed to the smell of breakfast. Between that and the thrumming, skipping anticipation in my middle (I’m going to see John! In just a moment!) it feels rather like Christmas morning (a better one than I’ve had in over a decade)(perhaps). Kick off the bedding and go into the kitchen. John is fully dressed and stood by the stove, frying a pan of eggs.

Sit down at the table, “This is a treat. I ought to resurrect more often.”

John snorts, with a little duck of his head that indicates he’s suppressing more mirth than he’s showing. “Don’t push it,” he says but it’s mild and almost affectionate.

“Sorry. Unexpectedly high spirits. I’ve never come back to life before; it’s making me,” cast about for the right word, “ebullient.”

I’m not sure how I know he’s grinning from the back of his neck (I’d have been able to put it into words before)(something irresistible about coaxing these little responses from him), “Ebullient. Swot.”

“If I’m a swot, what does that make you after seven years’ medical training?”

“Make yourself useful and put the coffee on.” John plates eggs, then bends to open the oven and remove a rack of toast. “Being dead is no excuse for being lazy.” Get up to obey, grinning, then open the fridge and begin to set out toast accoutrements. “Not the Nutella or Mary’ll have you arrested.”

“Ergh, hazelnut. Where is Mary?” Look towards the upstairs bedroom (seems odd not to have John in it)(used to be able to hear him thumping about sometimes when I laid in bed).

“She’s at work.” John gets down mugs.

“Oh. Why aren’t you at work? What day is it?” Slather a slice of toast in raspberry jam.

John turns to me, wiping his hands on a tea towel, “It’s Friday, and I-oi! Sherlock!”

I startle and nearly drop my toast, “What?”

“You can’t have that! You’re allergic to raspberries!” John snatches the toast away from me, as if I might wolf it anyway like a naughty dog.

“Am I?”

John bites into his confiscated toast, “Don’t you remember? Last time you went all blotchy and puffy and then lost a day to Benadryl.”

“Well that explains why I don’t remember, then.” Snag another piece of toast and consider the jars I’ve arranged on the worktop, “Which jam is the jam I like?”

“You used to put strawberries over honey. That was your favourite,” John’s half smile is. Complex.

“Any strawberries in?” Open the fridge and peer into it.

“Fraid not.” John pours himself coffee. “What have you been doing with yourself all this time, Sherlock Holmes?”

Spread my toast thickly with honey, “Systematically infiltrating and dismantling Moriarty’s network until it was safe for me to return to London without putting my friends in danger.”

John sighs, “I mean how did you even survive, when you can’t remember what you eat? What did you do without me?”

Chew my mouthful of toast and consider, “You’re right, John. I don’t know how I got on without you. My death should have killed me.”

John breaks into a giggle, then points at me sternly, “Stop making me laugh about this! I’m still. I should be really angry with you.”

Pour my own coffee so that I can look down, “I know.”

“I still. I feel rather like I’m talking to a ghost.”

“You may pinch me, if you like. If you would find it reassuring.” John reaches out. Instead of my arm as expected, his hand lands on my waist, where he lets it rest for half a moment before pinching me, none too gently. Makes me jump. “Feel better?”

John withdraws his hand, “A bit, actually. Will you let me have a top up, if I need it?”

“Say the word.” I sip my coffee. We chew our food in silence for a few minutes. Eggs are delicious.

“What are you up to today?” John asks, brushing toast crumbs off his mouth (onto his jumper).

“I’m not sure. I suppose I ought to. Go round and tell everyone. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly Hooper. How do you start being alive again?”

John shrugs, “Dnno. I was going to ask you.”

 

…

 

After breakfast, Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom and emerged a short time later, looking quite undersized in one of his posh suits and shirts. I hadn’t noticed how much weight he’d lost til he was back in his old clothes.

“I’ll want to examine you later,” I told him.

He smiled fondly, “Only an idiot argues with his doctor.”

“Then I’m sure I’ll hear a lot of arguing. Idiot.”

Sherlock only looked more fond and pulled on his tan raincoat, “Mrs Hudson first, I think.”

“God, yeah. Erm. I suppose I ought to pop down and prepare her first.”

Sherlock grinned, “My herald.” He looked about him, as if for something he’d mislaid.

I snorted, “I am _not_ your herald. Only she’s coming up on seventy, and I don’t want you giving her heart failure by swanning in asking for biscuits.”

“Seventy five, more like. And I don’t want any biscuits; I’ve just had breakfast.” He lifted my jacket hung on the peg by the door and checked under it. “Though I suppose I wouldn’t say no to a ginger nut if pressed. Love ginger nuts.” I slid my hand down in the crevice of the sofa behind my pillow, pulled out Sherlock’s scarf and held it out to him.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows but took the scarf and looped it round his neck, “Thank you, John.”

“Molly gave it to me,” I looked away against the stinging in my eyes. “After the funeral.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, “That was kind of her.”

“Yeah, people get really nice when they think you might top yourself.” That was a bit more than I meant to say.

“I know.”

I swallowed and looked up at him, clenching my hand, “That doesn’t count. It wasn’t real.”

Sherlock glanced down, “That isn’t what I meant. It was before I knew you.”

“Oh.” Sherlock rested his hand on my shoulder and gave me a little squeeze. I tried to breathe deeply. “Well. I was heralding.”

“You don’t have to do that for me. I could manage.”

“I’m doing it for her, actually!”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Sherlock withdrew his hand and tucked his scarf down the front of his coat. “Well come on,” I pulled on my jacket and opened the door.

Sherlock descended ahead of me and waited at the bottom of the stairs for me. I followed him, then gestured him back away from her door before knocking.

“Oh John, hello! You nearly missed me dearie. I was just going to the shops. Do you need anything?” Mrs Hudson stepped back from the door to let me into her flat, and I left the door ajar behind me so that Sherlock would hear when to come in.

“Actually I wanted a word, Mrs H. I’ve er. Got some news.”

Mrs Hudson clapped her hands together, “You’re getting married!”

I laughed incredulously, “Married? To who? And don’t say Mary.”

Mrs Hudson laughed too, “Don’t be ridiculous, John, she’s a lesbian. I suppose it was a silly guess, but you look so-”

“Ebullient?”

“Sorry?”

I smiled thinking of Sherlock feeling smug out in the foyer, “Nothing, never mind. Maybe you should sit down. It’ll be a. Bit of a shock.” I waited for Mrs Hudson to sit, then went to the door and called, “Ready?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, he walked in, “Hello Mrs Hudson.” Mrs Hudson screamed like she’d seen a ghost, then popped out of her chair and hugged Sherlock round the neck. He hugged her back and looked over her shoulder at me in pleased bemusement.

His expression made me laugh despite the stinging in my eyes, “People love you, you idiot.”

“That’s right!” Mrs Hudson gave Sherlock a little swat on the shoulder. “He loves you and you went and did that to him, Sherlock! To all of us!”

Sherlock cringed and hung his head, “Sorry.”

Mrs Hudson softened at once. She patted his arm and nodded at me, “Did you tell him?”

“Of course he told me.”

Mrs Hudson sank back into her chair and pulled a hankie out of her sleeve to dab her eyes, “Oh just having the pair of you bickering in my sitting room like an old married couple.”

“We’re not bickering!” Sherlock protested. “I’m eighty four percent sure that was an affectionate idiot.”

“Eighty four percent affectionate,” I agreed. “Sixteen percent idiot.” Mrs Hudson made a sniffy sort of laugh and beckoned to both of us, and Sherlock and I approached her chair and let her pull us in for motherly hugs and kisses.

 

...

 

“Have we really got to break in?” John grumbles looking round us apprehensively.

“Barely counts,” jimmy the lock off Mycroft’s back gate. “My brother’s hardly going to have us arrested.”

“That isn’t the only reason people don’t break in, Sherlock.”

“Too busy for hypotheticals at the moment, John,” hold the gate open for him and follow him up the neat path to the house.

Mycroft meets us at the kitchen door, “You have a key, so there’s no need for you to go round destroying things, is there?.”

Brush past him into the house, “My jimmy was bored.” Go for a rummage in the pantry, but it is unsurprisingly disappointing (can one be both unsurprised and disappointed? Disappointment suggests expectations, surely). John is at my elbow in a moment, and Mycroft shuts the door behind us.

“You are early, Lazarus.”

Sigh, “Not in the mood for riddles. Spit it out if you’ve something to say, Mycroft”

“You were meant to wait for my order, Sherlock. You’re early.”

“Got any crisps?” Open a cabinet and find a lot of unused cookware.

“We’ve had new intelligence, Sherlock. Just today. Moran has not been neutralised. He is at large in Serbia.”

Bang the cabinet shut, “What is the point of having an older brother who runs the government, when you can’t even accomplish a simple thing like incarcerating my mortal enemies?”

“I ask myself the same thing every day.”

“Hang on, who’s Moran? What are you talking about?” John sidles closer to me so that our arms brush (I’d like to put my arm about him again the way I did last night)(his heart beating against my ribcage)(don’t think of that now).

“Sebastian Moran, second most dangerous man in London. Well, when he is in London; you know what I mean. Moriarty’s right hand. Absolutely ruthless, crack shot, and unattended to by my brother, despite having been given one simple task in this whole mess.”

“I cleared your name!” Mycroft says indignantly.

“Cleared it a bit.” John scowls, arms folded, “None of that rubbish Moriarty spread about him held up under any kind of scrutiny, anyway. There wasn’t any evidence.”

“If he could have done anything useful, he probably would have round about the pool. Perhaps he’ll be a bit more polite now he’s been made to confront his own. Sogginess.” It comes out rather more contemptuously than it was meant to. Mycroft opens his mouth, then shuts it, looking chastened. “Good, that’s good. Silent contemplation. I’m mainly here for my coat, anyway. Where is it?” Whip off the dreadful tan one i’m wearing and drop it onto the floor.

“I was expecting you, so it’s just through there,” Mycroft indicates the adjoining dining room, prodding my discarded raincoat with the toe of his shoe and wrinkling his nose.

“I’ll get it,” John follows Mycroft’s pointing finger, and returns a moment later, holding my coat aloft. I turn and let John help me on with it, and he smooths my shoulders (fancy I can feel his fingertips through the coat)(of course that’s only my fancy). “That’s better. You look a bit more yourself now.”

“Except my hair,” Ruffle it ruefully. “How do you like me ginger, John? I don’t think it suits me. I do hope my hairdresser hasn’t left the city.”

“It suits you. But I like your floppy black Oscar Wilde hair just as well or better.”

Grin at him, “Does it make me look like Wilde?”

“Perhaps we could focus,” Mycroft interrupts.

“ _We_ will take whatever you’ve got on Moran, then _we’ve_ got to dash, brother dear. We’ve got to get back to Baker Street by way of the shops, wouldn’t you agree, John? I need a new toothbrush; can’t keep using yours. Not hygienic.”

“How d’yknow it was mine and not Mary’s?”

“You really think I don’t know your toothbrush when I see it, John?”

“Ergh, I don’t want to hear any more about that, thanks.”

“Good god, spare us that deduction,” Mycroft leaves the room without waiting to see if he’ll be spared.

“I can’t believe you used my toothbrush,” John can’t quite swallow his smile (forgotten what it is to be looked at that way).

“Well I tried using my finger at first, but it really wasn’t getting the job done.”

John raises his eyebrows, “There’s a sentence you don’t hear every day.” He isn’t bothering to hide his smile anymore. His expression hooks and tugs something in my middle.

“Have I come back too soon?” Mycroft enters with a briefcase and hands it to me. “There, go and finish your disgusting conversation somewhere else.”

“Much obliged, Mycroft.” Take John’s arm and pull him after me. “Afternoon!”


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock reintroduced himself to Lestrade and Molly respectively with the all tact and sensitivity he’s famous for. That’s a joke of course. He sidled up to Lestrade in a car park and asked to borrow a cigarette. Lestrade was so startled, he nearly set fire to his sleeve. Sherlock was even worse to poor Molly Hooper. Just threw open the door of the morgue and boomed, ‘Fancy seeing you here! Again.’ Though apparently Molly was instrumental in the whole death faking, and was only surprised to see him, rather than shocked and swooning like a Victorian heroine.

All that done, we went to Boots and loaded up on those little bits of living you sort of forget when you aren’t submerged in it day in and day out. Toothpaste, deodorant, razor blades, hair product. That sort of thing. We also stopped for food, as Sherlock claimed I’d planted a craving for strawberries in him and insisted it would be unfeeling of me to let it fester untended. Sherlock and I trooped up the seventeen steps to 221B, lighthearted and laden with bags. When we walked in, we found Mary sat in Sherlock’s chair watching telly.

She switched it off and turned to look at us as we came in, “Isn’t this homely.”

Sherlock stopped in the doorway so that I bumped into him, “I’d forgotten about you.”

“Cheers,” said Mary. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here either.”

I prodded Sherlock in the back, “Have you forgotten about me as well? Or can I come into the flat?”

“I’ll just go and put my things away,” Sherlock walked through to his bedroom and shut the door behind him. He slid it open again a second later, “You’ve got five minutes to talk about me uninterrupted, though I don’t swear I’m not listening.” He banged it shut again. I came in and set down my bags on the kitchen table.

Mary followed me into the kitchen, “So we’ve got a new flatmate? Or? What’s going on, John?”

I busied myself over the bags, “Hadn’t really thought, I suppose.”

Mary laughed dryly, “Maybe think a bit. We’re keeping him, apparently?”

“Would that be so bad? He. He’s. He plays the violin.”

Mary threw back her head and laughed, “Yeah, got that. He does play the violin, and he isn’t half bad at the violin. From what I understand, he does a load of other stuff as well. Somewhat. Less pretty stuff.”

“I’ve already told him to keep off your Nutella.”

“I wasn’t talking about the Nutella, sweetie. I’m talking about the last two years, mm? What about that?”

“Well if he dies again, then you can tell me I told you so,” my voice wobbled a little over the last, and I coughed into my elbow, as if I could hide it retroactively.

“John,” Mary put an arm about my shoulder and gave me a squeeze that I worked hard not to shrug off, “I don’t want to tell you I told you so. I’m not trying to make you feel stupid. Only. Maybe be a bit. Careful. He seems sort of. Not safe.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe I’m a bit less safe than you know.”

“Not like that,” Mary said seriously. “You’d never do that.”

“I might. If I. If I had to.” A room away, Sherlock’s door creaked open again, and then the shower went on.

“Is this like the sofa thing?” Mary asked after a moment.

I answered through my teeth, “The sofa thing.”

“Come on, John I’m not stupid. I know what that’s about. The sleeping on the sofa. You’re on guard. And you think maybe this time, if you can stop anything bad happening again, it’ll make up for all the horrible shit that happened before.”

I shrugged off her arm, “It wasn’t a lark, Mary, he was trying to save my life! And he did! I can’t just. Ignore that. And fine, yeah! I don’t want to! I want to let him make me feel awake again! I want to pick happiness over vigilance. That okay with you? If I let myself have something?”

The shower spray shut off and a moment later the bathroom door opened, “Mary? Can I borrow your hair dryer? The diffuser attachment on mine’s gone missing.”

“Yeah, have it,” Mary called over her shoulder. “Just put it back when you’re done.” I took the opportunity to put the kettle on, then I went back to putting the things away. Mary came up behind me while I was setting aside mugs and ginger nuts. “I like him, sweetie, I do. But there’s no denying he’s a bit. Feral. And all the ginger nuts in the world aren’t going to turn him into an indoor cat.”

“I don’t like cats.”

Mary sighed, “Okay, John. Okay. Just look after yourself. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Yeah, I will. Thanks.” I let her hug me, then mercifully the kettle went off, and I had the excuse of pouring out.

“We still on for Cath tonight? Or are you begging off?”

“Oh bugger, I completely forgot.”

“Who’s Cath?” Sherlock entered the kitchen wearing his blue dressing gown over one of his suits.

“My friend Cath is having a fireworks party for Bonfire Night tonight,” Mary said, turning to Sherlock. “And John here promised to go with me weeks and weeks ago.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock, helping himself to one of the biscuits I’d set out and dunking it energetically. “Dull.”

“I thought you might say that. And I’m fairly sure John’s worried you might widdle on the floor, if he leaves you on your own, so you’ve lost me my tube company.”

Sherlock grinned. “Widdle. Well. I’ll come along if that makes things easier.”

Mary raised her eyebrows, “Will you?”

“Unless that face you’re making is your way of telling me I’m not invited,” Sherlock glanced at me. “Am I about to be karated?”

“She doesn’t know karate,” I told him.

“I could learn it. Sure, come along, Sherlock. Could be fun.”

Sherlock turned to me, grinning and bouncing his eyebrows, “Could be fun, John.”

 

…

 

“Potato?” John offers quietly.

“Hmm?”

“I think they’re giving out jacket potatoes at that cart over there, and your hands look cold,” John reaches out as he speaks and catches hold of my right index finger. “Yeah, quite cold, just like I thought.”

Turn my hand and squeeze his, “Yours are supernaturally warm, John. How are you generating so much heat?”

John smiles coyly, “It’s a secret. Potato?”

“Thank you, yes.”

“Back in a tic,” John gently withdraws his hand and steps away. He returns a few minutes later with a potato which he tucks into my hand and cups my other over it. “There you are. How’s that? Better?”

“Thank you, John. Warmer.” We both look up at the bonfire. “This is new, isn’t it? This sort of thing.”

John looks at me, then back to the fire, “Yeah, I suppose. It’s,” he hesitates over the end of his sentence. “New. Yeah, it’s new. A bit. How do you like it?”

Look up at the sky (dazzlingly starry scraps of sky visible beyond the smoke and the clouds)(I want John to look, too)(he does!), “Everything is good with you.” The undisguised truth, for once. “Nothing is good without you.” I look at John. John drops his head and looks away, but not before I see him smile.

He takes a moment to compose himself (!) then looks back at me, “I can’t do this if. If you’re going to leave me like that again. I’m. I’m not asking you to make me any promises. Just. Just know that.”

Twist of self-hatred in my gut. I swallow, “I never wanted to leave you, John.”

John nods once, “I know you didn’t want to. But you did.” Hang my head. John turns to me, strokes my arm, “Think it over, all right? Let’s both. Think it over.”

Nod, “Okay. Let’s think. I’m good at thinking.”

John smiles and pets my arm again, “I know you are, Sherlock. I know.” We are quiet for a long moment, then John unbuttons my second coat button, slips his warm hand (can feel it through my clothes) into my coat and under my jacket, and pinches my side lightly (little electric jolt of excitement at the contact)(burst into gooseflesh)(can he feel it?)(of course not, that’s ridiculous).

Wet my lips, “Better?”

John smiles, “Better. Yeah.”

 

…

 

“I meant to take this as an opportunity to get to know you better, and you were chatting up that Irish girl all night,” Sherlock remarked, turning his head to look at Mary. They were sat side by side on the tube, and I stood in front of them with either arm hooked around a pole for support.

Mary grinned, “Thanks for not interrupting. Did you have fun anyway? Looked like it every time I looked over at you.”

I kicked Sherlock’s toe, “We always entertain ourselves, don’t we, Sherlock?”

Sherlock kicked back, “Don’t scuff my shoe, John.” Mary laughed, and Sherlock looked over at her again, “Did you get her number?”

“Yes, I did, nosey.”

“I knew that already, actually,” Sherlock said. “Only I also know that you think I monopolise the conversation, so I thought I’d give you the chance to talk about yourself, if you like.”

Mary raised her eyebrows, then looked at me, “You two been talking about me?”

“No, of course not,” I crossed my heart.

She looked back at Sherlock, “This’ll be that genius thing then, I suppose. What else do you know about me?”

“We really don’t need to-”

Sherlock cut me off, “You’re a nurse at the same surgery where John works; it’s how you met. Moved into the spare room two months ago because your relationship ended. You’re an only child, educated in the US. Both parents deceased. Fond of cats and baking. Right handed, non-smoker non-drinker. Animal tattoo on your back. Probably a.” Sherlock considered, his eyes bouncing over Mary, “Dove. No. A butterfly. But it’s cheating, as I’ve been inside your flat. I don’t get that chance with most people.”

She glared at him, then at me, “So you have been talking about me.”

“Not a word, I swear! He just does this stuff. It’s his thing.”

Sherlock looked smug, “It’s a genius thing.”

“I don’t like it,” Mary said, still glaring.

Sherlock sighed, “No one ever does.”

I kicked his toe again, “Not no one.” Sherlock smiled and kicked back. 

“It isn’t fair that you know all that stuff about me and me nothing about you. I suppose you know all about John as well?”

Sherlock actually winked at me, “You have no idea.”

I grinned, “Take it down a notch.”

“Well we ought to even things out, don’t you think?” Mary sounded on the brink of clicking her fingers at us.

“Even things out how?” I asked. “He should tell us all about him. Make things fair.”

“Ooh, I like the sound of that, actually. What do you say, Sherlock? Fair’s fair.”

“How’s that fair? I get my information from scientific practice of observation and deduction, not from a series of inane personal questions.”

“It’d give you the chance to monopolise the conversation,” Mary said, bouncing her eyebrows. “What shall we ask him, John?”

“Errr, what’s your favourite colour?”

Sherlock sighed, “How truly dull of you, John. Now what possible utility could be contained in that sort of information?”

I shrugged and kicked him, “Might want to get you a present some time.”

Sherlock tucked away a little smile, “Still boring. Lilac. Satisfied?”

“Jesus,” Mary muttered. “Get a bloody room already.”

“Your turn,” Sherlock said. “You’re right; I do like talking about myself.”

Mary tapped her chin, “Tell us. Hmmm. Tell us. Have you got any tattoos?”

Sherlock smiled, “Yes, I have.”

I goggled, “You have? Where? What of?”

“Just one,” Sherlock stroked his left outer thigh, “Here. Magnifying glass, and in the handle it says _omne ignotum pro magnifico_.”

“I like that,” I told him. “I really like that. Not what I’d have expected from you, though. It’s almost. Romantic.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Well Don’t you go letting on.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Shirt on or off?”  
“Off please. Are you warm enough?”  
“Yes, fine.”  
“Okay good. Open your mouth and say ahhhhh.”  
“Ahhhhhhh.”  
“Excellent. Very loud. Give me your hand.”  
“Oh John, this is all so sudden. I’d no idea you cared.”  
“Haaaa, I knew you’d make that stupid joke, Mr Punchline, but I asked for your hand anyway because I’m that committed to your health. Shut up now, I’m taking your pulse....Okay good. Now lean forward a bit? Sorry, this’ll be cold.”  
“It’s fine.”  
“There’s a brave little soldier. Deep breath?...deeper if you can, deep deep deep...all right now let it out slow. Okay. Mmm, was this rib broken?”  
“Hurt a hell of a lot, whatever happened to it.”  
“Right. What did happen?”  
“Minor incident with a lead pipe.”  
“A lead pipe. Jesus.”  
“It’s over now, John.”  
“This with the pipe. That wasn’t all there was to it either, was it? You should’ve brought me with you. I could’ve helped. I could have. Stopped this.”  
“You had a life here.”  
“Did I?”  
“It’s over now, John. It’s all right, now.”   
“Jesus Christ. I’m sorry, Sherlock...sorry. I didn’t mean to be all. I’m sorry.”  
“It’s all right, John.”  
“Right. Hem. Sorry. My bedside manner is usually not this depressing. Okay. Well. We’ll want some x-rays for that. Bet it plays up in bad weather. Does it hurt now?”  
“No.”  
“Sherlock…”  
“Well yes, it hurts a bit.”  
“Yeah, I reckon it does hurt a bit. I’m sorry Sherlock. I should’ve. I wish I’d been there.”   
“It’s okay, John.”  
“It’s not, though. I should’ve. It’s not okay, Sherlock. It’s not okay.”  
“All right. It’s not okay.”  
“It’s not.”  
“But it will mend.”

 

…

 

“You are making your headache face,” Sherlock put down the file he’d been reading. 

“Have I got a headache face?” I massaged my forehead. 

“It’s similar to your normal face, but there’s a line down the middle of it.”

I snorted, “Charming.”

Sherlock waved carelessly, “Oh don’t worry. You’re as ornamental as ever, line or no.”

“Ha, well thanks.”

“I thought you might like me to play something soothing on my violin. Nothing from Doctor Who,” he added firmly. “Every time you think about that, you get all worked up about that Russell person.”

“No, we like him. It’s that other-”

“Yes John, thank you. I don’t need to hear about the astronaut again.”

“Why does he write things just to instantly undo them? That’s all I’m-”

“Perhaps some Schubert,” Sherlock suggested loudly. 

“Well,” I hesitated. 

“Yes?” Sherlock got up and went to his music stand. 

“Maybe if it’s not too much trouble. Something original?”

“Ah,” Sherlock picked up his violin. “I could do that.”

I stretched out on the sofa and shut my eyes, “Thanks,”

Sherlock played a thrumming, thinking sort of note, then paused, “I. Thought of you often while I was away. Constantly. It made me wish for my violin. The things I had nowhere to put began to. Build.” He didn’t wait for me to answer but began to play straight away. Something tentative and sweet I’d not heard before. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but sleep I did. A deep, peaceful sleep, the shadow of Sherlock’s swaying form and the harmonious swells of his music bearing me off. 

I woke some time later to the sound of Sherlock’s urgent whispering, “‘-might’ve called first at least.”

The voice of an older woman whispered back, “Mycroft told us you don’t have a phone.”

“Well my. John is asleep on the sitting room sofa, and you can’t come in. Go away.”

I sat up, “No, I’m awake. Who are you chasing off?”

“No one, I suppose,” said Sherlock irritably. He stepped back from the door to admit an elderly man and woman, who stood right by the door when they entered, beaming and peering around them curiously. Sherlock gestured to me, “This is Doctor John Watson. Recently awake. John, this is Mae Holmes and Robert Holmes-”

“Your parents,” I finished. “Lovely to meet you.”

“Ah, the famous Doctor Watson!” Sherlock’s dad exclaimed, shaking my hand as Sherlock’s mum kissed his cheek. “We just love your blog!”

I grinned and cut a glance at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes up at the ceiling, “You’ve read my blog?”

“Of course!” Sherlock’s mum patted his cheek. “How else are we going to keep up with this one. He never calls.”

“I prefer to text,” Sherlock muttered, sidestepping the hand on his face. “John, if your head still hurts, you can go and lie down in the bedroom. I’m sure we can spare you here. And we’ll try and keep it down,” he glared at his parents, who smiled fondly in return.

“My head’s fine,” I said, grinning even bigger. “I don’t need to lie down.” 

“Oh sweetheart, you look so thin and tired,” Sherlock’s mum clucked. “Great dark circles under your eyes, too and you’re that pale.”

“Yes, well. I wasn’t away for my health, was I? Being undercover will do that to you. It’s quite stressful.” He met my eye for a moment, then looked down. We all enjoyed the awkward pause that followed for a few seconds, before I spoke up. 

“Well don’t worry, I’ve already started in on feeding him up and putting him to bed on time.” 

“Oooh, bless you dear, I knew I liked you,” Sherlock’s mum put an arm about my shoulders. “If you can talk him into leaving his hair its natural colour, you’ll be my personal hero.” 

Sherlock huffed, “Mum! Please!” 

I thought the ends of my grin might meet round the back, “You’re naturally ginger? I thought you’d dyed it for a disguise.”

“I stopped dying it for a disguise,” Sherlock said in the clipped, snippy tone that portends stormy waters. “As you know, I generally wear it dark because it looks ridiculous this way.”

“Oh now love, if your boyfriend likes it-” began Sherlock’s mother. 

“John can see to whatever grows out of his head, and I shall look after mine. If we’re ready to staunch this exudation of criticism, I’ll go and put put the kettle on.” Sherlock turned on his heel and made for the kitchen. 

“Er. I’ll help, shall I? You two sit down and make yourselves comfortable.” I gestured to the sofa before following Sherlock into the kitchen. 

Sherlock was glaring at the kettle, his arms folded, but he turned when I came in and began to rummage in the cabinets for his tea service. 

“Need a hand?” I opened a cabinet to demonstrate the sincerity of my offer. 

Sherlock did not come out from behind his cabinet door, “Thank you, no. I do remember how it’s done.”

“I’ll look after biscuits then,” I opened the pantry. “Is liking ginger nuts a family trait, or do you think they’d prefer these little lemon things?” Sherlock didn’t answer, so I pulled out the ginger nuts, the lemon things, and quite an elderly tin of shortbread. Sherlock found his tea service and made a meal of measuring tea leaves into the strainer, all the time avoiding my eye. “You okay?” I asked quietly. 

Sherlock tapped the tea spoon against the pot a few times, as if to strengthen his resolve, “I apologise for my parents’ assumptions about the nature of our relationship,” he said presently, his eyes still on the teapot. “I know that sort of thing makes you uncomfortable. I hope you understand they did not derive their misconceptions from anything I. Intentionally suggested. I will speak to them. Privately.” 

“Hey, it’s okay,” I put my hand on Sherlock’s elbow and he looked up at me. “I’m sorry I embarrassed you. I didn’t mean to.” 

“You didn’t embarrass me; I embarrassed myself,” Sherlock answered stiffly. He tucked in his chin and continued very quietly, “No matter how I try, I’m so. Transparent.” He looked at me. “I. I do not mean to make that. Your problem.” 

“Sherlock?”

“Mm.”

“Would you hate it very much if I gave you a hug?” Sherlock’s eyes went wide, and his mouth opened without making any sound. “Sherlock? You okay? You all right?” I rubbed his elbow. “Bad idea? Bad suggestion?” 

Sherlock shook his head, “I would not hate it very much. Thank you.” 

“Good. Great.” I put my arms around him, and he was rather stiff for a moment or two, then his hand came up and landed low on my back. I cuddled him a little tighter at that, and Sherlock nosed the top of my head and sighed softly into my hair.


	5. Chapter 5

“I’ll have coffee white, the soup of the day, and a cheese and onion sandwich, please.”  
“It’s ten o’clock in the morning!”  
“I’m a monster.”  
“Truly.”  
“Someone kept me waiting all morning while he Wikipedia’d things and fussed with his hair, so I’m really hungry. It looked good. Your OCD is your problem.”  
“And you call yourself a doctor.”  
“Not the sort that attends to nutters.”  
“Only in your leisure time.”  
“In my leisure time, I eat lunch.”  
“At breakfast time.”  
“I’m a monster.”  
“Truly. You do know you’re a nutter as well, don’t you?”   
“Er yes, I’d noticed. I see dead people, and I eat lunch at breakfast time.” 

 

...

 

“If you’re going to keep John up all night cuddling you through the scary bits of The Empire Strikes Back, you might at least let him have the bed,” Mary remarks, entering the sitting room by way of the kitchen early one morning. 

“He couldn’t sleep. All I was keeping him was company.” Pin up a newspaper clipping to my evidence wall. “I offered him the bed. He is perfectly well able to take it, if he chooses.” Adjust a bit of red string. “He wanted to stay with me.” On the sofa, John sighs and murmurs in his sleep, and Mary and I both freeze. 

After a moment, Mary continues in a whisper, “Yeah, I’ll bet he did.”

“I’m starting to suspect this conversation is mainly subtext. I’m not good with those. Stop pretending you aren’t incredibly bossy and lecture me openly, if you must.”

Mary crosses the room to stand next to me, “This isn’t about bossy, and it isn’t about your ego and it isn’t about my ego. He’s a human being, and you dangling him off your elbow like a really fancy handbag nearly killed him! I’m not just going to let you do that to him again. He’s my friend.”

Whip round to face her at that, “I was trying to save him! He’s my friend, too!”

Mary glares back at me, “Then you’ve got to do better. Haven’t you?”

Open my mouth to answer furiously, but John sits up and clears his throat, and my stomach sinks, “Right, if the two of you could stop fighting over me. I’m not a fucking handbag! I’m a grown man, and I can look after myself, and I’m no fucking sidekick to either of you! Got it?” He stoops to pull on his shoes, then rises from the sofa. 

“Where are you going?” Mary and I ask in unison. 

“Storming out!” John grabs his jacket from the hook, then does indeed storm out, banging the door shut behind him. 

 

…

 

You aren’t my sidekick. I know that.   
-SH 

 

I never wanted you to be my sidekick.   
-SH 

 

For you and me, the stuff isn’t the point.   
-SH 

 

I don’t know what else I can give you. I don’t know how else I can make you happy.   
-SH 

 

Solving is all I know how to do.   
-SH 

 

Did you leave the flat and buy a phone so that you could text me?

 

I’m flattered you remember my number

 

It’s in the do not delete section.   
-SH

 

Mycroft sent the phone. Have been ignoring it on principle.   
-SH 

 

Well thanks for abandoning your principles on my account. 

 

Any time.   
-SH 

 

Maybe my happiness isn’t your job. 

 

I apologise for my clumsiness. This sort of thing is entirely new to me.   
-SH 

 

Please understand that my feelings towards you are anything but dutiful.   
-SH 

 

If I were allowed a share in your happiness, I would consider it an honour and a joy .  
-SH 

 

All right, Mr Darcy. Be home in a bit. Can I get you anything?

 

No. Come back. Your nodding helps me think; I’ve got stupid without you.   
-SH 

 

I’m coming. 

 

…

 

“I’m moving out.”  
“You don’t have to do that.”  
“Well yeah, I do a bit. We’re arse to elbows in here. There isn’t room enough for the three of us, and you two have. Well. You need your privacy. I’m going to go and stay with Cath while I look for a new place. We decided at the party.”  
“Okay. Well. Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out.”  
“Don’t look so gloomy, John! We’ll see each other at work and things. Still friends?”  
“Yeah, of course! Still friends.”  
“Good luck with Sherlock.”  
“Thanks. Thanks for er. Sticking up for me. But he’s a really. He’s a good person. He’s a really good person.”  
“Well, you’d know better than I would.”  
“Right, thanks.”  
“And John, you know you’re a really really good person, as well. You don’t have to be so bloody longsuffering all the time.”   
“Ha, okay. I’ll try to be a bit more shortsuffering.”  
“Just look after yourself, okay.”  
“Yeah. Thanks. You too.”

 

…

 

“Well that’s got to be a record,” I threw myself onto the sitting room sofa rather sherlockishly. 

Sherlock looked round from his evidence wall, “What has?”

“I’ve just been chucked by a woman I never dated. And she was a lesbian! You reckon that’s ever happened before?”

“Nothing is ever new,” Sherlock said with a sympathetic grimace. “That’s probably my fault. Sorry. I like her; I didn’t mean to scare her away.”

“Nah, I’m being dramatic,” I said with a shrug. “We’re still mates; she’s just moving out. Three’s a crowd and all.”

Sherlock nodded wisely, “Probably best for her. People who live here are always getting kidnapped and things.” 

I stretched out on the sofa and kicked off my shoes, “I’ve only been kidnapped once.”

“Thrice,” Sherlock corrected. “I can’t believe you lost track of how many times you’ve been kidnapped.”

“Thrice?”

“It means three times, John.”

I laughed, “I know what it means, you tit. How do you reckon on thrice?” 

“Don’t imitate me, John; it’s so unattractive. And I reckon on thrice because first it was Mycroft, then it was Moriarty, then it was that horrible woman,” Sherlock ticked off on his fingers as he spoke. “One, two, three. Thrice.”

I frowned, “Woman? What horrible woman?”

Sherlock waved impatiently, “The woman woman. Irene Adler.” 

“Oh, right. That woman.” I considered. “I didn’t know you thought she was horrible.”

“John,” Sherlock said patiently, “She stabbed me in the shoulder with a dubiously sterile hypodermic needle full of some mysterious knock-out drug, flogged me with a riding crop, broke into our flat and went to sleep in my bed naked, and she tried to blackmail England. And she stole my coat. How is that not horrible?”

“Well it is, but. I sort of thought you.”

“Sort of thought I what?” Sherlock said crossly. 

I picked at the arm of the sofa, “Fancied her?” 

Sherlock scowled deeply, “Fancied her?!”

“Well you-”

“John!” Sherlock actually stamped his bare foot. “I’m gay!”

“Oh!” That made me a little lightheaded for some reason. “Oh!”

Sherlock tossed his head, “That was only the first thing I ever told you about myself, John! How could you have possibly forgot?”

“What?! You never told me that! I was really really listening for it!”

Sherlock blinked and a flush started in his ears, “Well. Now you know.” 

I swallowed a giggle, because I sort of felt it’d be poor form to giggle in the moment, “Yeah, thanks. Now I know. Anything else I’ve somehow missed that you want to fill me in on?”

Sherlock turned back to his evidence wall, “I’ll have a think about that and get back to you.” 

“Well good. And don’t think I’m afraid to remind you.”

 

…

 

“You’ve gotta help me find her, Mr Holmes. Please, I’m desperate. I don’t know what I’ll do, if I can’t find her.” Client pulls a crumpled tissue from his sleeve and dabs his nose. 

Clasp my hands and lean forward, “How long has it been?”

“Been about two years.” John and I exchange glances. Not very good odds on that one. Still, that’s what I’m for. Making something of long odds.

“What have the police said?” John asks quietly. 

“The police are useless,” I shoot back automatically. John gives me a look, but the client makes a wry, rueful sort of sound. 

“This ain’t really what they do, yknow. Not their area.” 

I snort, “I empathise entirely. Tell us what happened.”

Client looks down at his lap, collecting his thoughts. A tear starts in the corner of his eye and rolls down his round cheek, “She was ill for a long time. And she died.” 

Glance at John, before I answer, “You have reason to suspect foul play?”

Client looks confused, “No, not foul play.”

John looks still more confused, “Then you think she’s still alive somehow?”

“No, I know what happened to her. That’s not why I’m. I know she’s dead, but if I could only get a message to her.” Our client dabs his eyes with his tissue. “And I thought since Mr Holmes here has been to the other side and come back, maybe,” he trails off and glances up at me, wincing as if he hardly dares hope, then drops his head again and begins to weep silently but in earnest. 

Prickle with shame (not sure why) and open my mouth to answer (don’t know what), but before I can, John slides out of his seat onto one knee next to our client’s chair, “What was her name?” 

“Jane, her name was Jane.”

John puts his hand gently on our client’s elbow, “You loved each other?” The client nods slowly. John half glances at me but checks himself and fixes his eyes on our client, “Billy, she didn’t leave you because she wanted to. She’d have stayed, if she could. She’s safe now. She’s at peace. And she can’t come back. People can’t go and come back. All right? You understand?” 

Billy sobs softly, but he nods, “I know, but.”

Something clicks into place in my head, “There’s someone else now, isn’t there?”

Billy nods, resigned, “Yeah.”

Lean further forward in my chair so that my head is level with Billy’s, “That’s all right, too. You don’t have to stop living because she did. She wouldn’t want that.” 

Billy looks at me hopefully, “You think she’d forgive me?”

Pat his shoulder, “There is nothing to forgive. Live and be as happy as you can. That’s all there is to it.” 

 

…

 

Miss me yet? How’s Miss Marple?  
Mx

 

Fine, we’re all fine here. Thanks. 

 

How are you? How’s Cath?

 

Have you shagged him yet?  
Mx

 

Jesus Christ, Mary. Don’t stand on ceremony or anything. 

 

Well, get on with it already! He’s absolutely gagging for it.   
Mx

 

Do you some good as well, wouldn’t it. A nice shag.  
Mx

 

I don’t think I want to talk to you about that at the mo, thanks. 

 

Fine, be sensitive. Told you you were a good guy.   
Mx

 

Scared stiff, more like. 

 

Don’t worry, sweetie! Faint heart never won fair detective! Speak up, and it’ll all be fine!   
Mx

 

I hope so. 

 

You’ve changed your tune.

 

I read your blog. I think you’re right. He is a good person.   
Mx

 

Sorry about all that feral cat stuff.   
Mx

 

It did sort of make you sound like a tory. 

 

Bite your tongue!  
Mx

 

He did something really really bad two years ago. He’s trying to do better. 

 

Well, I hope he does with all my heart. I really do.   
Mx

 

Thanks. Me too.


	6. Chapter 6

“It is time to act, John,” Sherlock intoned solemnly, folding his newspaper and placing it between our bowls on the breakfast table. “Are you ready?”

I looked up from my cornflakes, “What, now? Act on what? Do I have time for a wash first?”

“Moran,” said Sherlock almost exultantly. “He’s going to try and kill me tonight. Probably tonight.”

I stood up, “What do I do?”

Sherlock smiled and waved to my chair, “Finish your cornflakes; there’s time for that. Even have a shower, if you like. We’re staking out tonight.”

“Brilliant. Love a stake-out.”

Sherlock grinned at me and rose from his chair as well, “I know! So do I! God, it’s so much more fun thwarting my own murder when you’re around!”

I tried not to laugh, but his buoyancy was so contagious that I didn’t quite manage it, “Right, okay, have we got a plan?”

“Of course we’ve got a plan! Though you will let me keep some of it for a surprise, won’t you? Your face when I’ve surprised you is just.” Sherlock shut his eyes blissfully and kissed his fingers, “Sublime.” 

I grinned, “Sublime, eh?”

Sherlock bounced an eyebrow, “You have absolutely no idea. Right!” He clapped his hands together once and pulled his phone out of his pocket, “Lestrade, are you busy tonight? Can you help me organise a sting? I can promise you the man who murdered Lord Adair….Brilliant! I’ll text the details.” Sherlock tossed his phone onto the table without bothering with disconnecting. He seized me by the shoulders and spun us on the spot, til I laughed aloud. “God, this is exciting! The game is on, John! The game is on!”

 

…

 

John and I are silent as we ascend our blind (John looks heroic in the scraps of dusk that fall over him whenever we pass a dusty window). When we come to the final flight of stairs, John reaches for me, and we continue to the top hand in hand. I lead him through the narrow doorway at the top of the stairs and find a shadowy corner for us to wait in. John’s soft hand in mine is steady, and his expression is eager in a way that only I know just how to look for. A restrained keenness (thrilling, dazzling, can hardly look at him).

Too excited, too excited. Shut my eyes for a moment (our breathing is so quick and loud) to compose myself before I break the silence, “Do you know where we are?”

“Baker Street,” John says at once. “The building across the road from ours, being renovated. Though we have come the dramatic way.” 

“The dramatic way.” Press his hand still in mine, “You love it. Admit you love it. You and me, back at it again. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping in your veins. Just the two of us against the rest of the world.” 

John squeezes back, “Yeah, course I love it.” Nothing has ever shone like John. 

Let him shine on me for a moment (got to focus; nearly there)(!), “Look out of the window, but don’t be seen.” 

John moves along the sides of the room and looks out the window from an angle, “There’s our flat.”

“The curtains are open a bit. What do you see?” 

John looks back at me, “It’s us in our chairs.” 

Smile, “It looks like us. The busts I had made special. The dummies I got secondhand, actually.”

“Bait.”

“Exactly. The nice thing about someone wanting to kill you is that you never have to go hunting for them when you want to arrest them. Let them come to you! Makes things much simpler.”

John makes his way back to me, “Sherlock.”

“Hmm?”

John arrives at my side, “I forgive you.” 

“What?”

“I forgive you,” John whispers urgently, “Thank you for saving me. I forgive you.” 

Hiss impatiently (stomach skips), “We’re not going to die, John!”

“What? No, of course we’re not! I wasn’t-”

“Don’t say goodbye to me; we’re not going to die!”

John shakes his head, “I’m not saying goodbye; I’m trying to tell you that I love you!”

Open my mouth (could I reply?) but below us, there’s the sound of a door shutting heavily, and John and I fall silent instantly. Hold out my hand for John’s, and he takes it at once, and lets me draw him back into the shadows and behind a sheet of tarp that hangs from floor to ceiling to separate this room from the adjoining. 

It seems to take almost no time at all for Moran to arrive. He steps into the room, elegantly dressed in a well-cut suit under an open greatcoat, with a slim case under his arm. He might almost be a patron of the arts on his way to see a show in the Marylebone Road (that's the idea, of course)(and perhaps even the agenda: quick murder, a show, late dinner, drinks). He removes the coat, opens the case, and begins screwing together a rifle. Once it is assembled, he slides open the window, steadies the muzzle of the rifle on the window sill, takes aim, and fires it into our window across the road, once, twice. John is taut as a violin string beside me, and his hand squeezes mine so tightly that I know my fingers are changing colour. The sound of the breaking glass was the signal, and Lestrade’s officers will be with us in less than two minutes. 

Moran begins to disassemble his gun, and when it’s put away in its case, I nod to John, and we step out from behind the tarp. 

“I’m afraid you’ve missed me, Colonel.” At the sound of my voice, Moran whirls round with a bellow of fury and charges me, but John shoves me out of the way, steps forward, and with two smooth movements, catches Moran by the throat and kicks his feet out from under him. John is good enough to escort Moran on his journey to the floor, and sits half astride him with one knee pinning Moran’s arm down and one knee high on Moran’s chest. Moran grunts and gurgles and struggles, grasping ineffectually at John’s arm still at his throat. 

“No need to asphyxiate him, John. The police are here.” 

“It’s really no bother,” John says almost lightly, but there are running feet on the stairs, and half a moment later, Lestrade bursts in with his gun drawn, followed by half a dozen armed officers. “Lucky escape,” John tells Moran, only then releasing his hold and getting to his feet. 

“Up on your knees, Moran,” Lestrade orders. “Hands on your head! Now!” 

“These men are stalking me!” Moran rasps, as he obeys. “They attacked me!”

“Yeah, and I suppose they fired that gun into their own flat as well,” Lestrade says. “Get him out of here,” he tells the officers, and Moran is cuffed and dragged out of the room. Lestrade grins boyishly at us and holsters his gun, “Nice one, gents. Just like old times, eh?”

“Almost exactly like old times, Lestrade,” I can’t help grinning too. We shake hands all round, and Lestrade gives us matching congratulatory slaps on the back. Find I'm rather conscious of looking at John, still I can’t help sneaking little glances.

Outside, John and I slip away in the bustle of the arrest and removal of the blockade. John trots along the pavement with purpose, and I follow after him til we come to a relatively secluded alley a few dozen yards from the site of the sting. John turns to me, anticipation written over every part of him, and we gaze at one another, each eager both to speak and to hear. 

I break the silence, “You told me to have a think-”

John cuts across me, “I’m in love with you. I can’t keep it in any longer. I love you.” He licks his lips and looks up at me, worry and affection mingling on his face. Gape at him, trying to make my mouth work (can’t let that worry linger on his lovely face)(so much to say, worlds, universes of love for John in me, ready to burst out if only I can find how to make them). John’s face falls as he looks at my stupefied expression. He nods, “Okay. It’s too much. Okay. Sorry.” He drops his head and starts to turn away. 

Finally force out a strangled sound, “No! John! I.” Reach for him and catch his face between my hands. John grabs hold of my coat and tugs me closer, wrapping his arms round my waist. We hold each other quietly while I try and gather myself. My first attempt to speak comes as a gasp, “I love you, John! I love you I love you.” And then I can’t speak anymore because John is kissing me and kissing me, and I’m so weak and dizzy with the relief of it. My wretched, buzzing brain melts away and the only bits of me that are real are clutched in John’s gentle hands and pressed to his warming mouth. After a few seconds (or several starlit aeons) John releases me and shines his dazzling smile on me so that his light sets me aglow, the way the sun does the moon. 

John licks his lips (soft and red and slick from mine), “Home?” I can only nod. John laces our fingers together and draws me across the road to our flat. I trip after him, my heart in my mouth, as if I’m following my destiny.

 

…

 

“Will you stay with me tonight? Will you sleep with me? You won’t go back to the sofa?” Sherlock’s voice in my ear was warm and heavy as his sticky limbs wrapped round my body. 

I kissed his cheek, “Course I will. Tonight and every night for as long as you want me.”

“Forever then,” said Sherlock with satisfaction. 

“Forever, eh?” I smiled into his hair. 

“For the rest of my life,” Sherlock said with a little wave. I caught his waving hand and kissed it. Sherlock made the tiniest soft smile in recognition but continued, “'And when I am dead, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he shall make the face of heaven so fine that all the world shall be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun.'” He paused and grinned at me, “Next bit doesn’t apply. Oh I have bought the mansion of a love and have possessed it.” 

I kissed his hand again, “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a blushing maiden, Juliet.” 

“You are kissing my hand like a gallant gentleman, Romeo,” he answered with a little laugh that was something like a blush. “And my own words seem so drab and flabby, compared with my feelings. I only want to give you your due. Shakespeare was handy.”

“I like the way you put things. I don’t exactly mind Shakespeare, but I’d rather your words than his. If. Declarations are on offer.” 

“On offer? I shall make my declarations every day, if you like, John. You’ll be stumbling over my declarations. They’ll be coming out of cupboards; they’ll be down the bottom of the tea kettle; they’ll be rattling about in your shoes. You’ll have my declarations in the pockets of your coat and in your toothpaste and wrapped round your neck like a scarf. My declarations will be hung from the ceiling like bunting. You can swathe my declarations about you at night and keep yourself toasty.” 

“You see?” I kissed his hand again, “That was beautiful. How could I prefer Shakespeare? Tell me though, was that prepared?”

“It was the work of the moment, John, I assure you.”

“Amazing. Fantastic,” I stroked his back. 

“I’m very fond of your declarations, while we’re on the subject,” Sherlock tucked his chin in shyly as he spoke. 

“Oh? I’d better mix it up a bit, then. Been using the same ones for years; they must be getting rather dogeared now, eh?” I waited a moment for Sherlock to answer, but he only buried his face against my chest and smiled and smiled. I kissed his hair, “You are sweet and lovely. Hilarious. Delightful. Kind and good and gentle and wise.”

Sherlock snorted, “Gentle and wise? Don’t bollocks up your pillow talk with fibs, John.”

“Gentle and wise, Sherlock” I insisted. “And if you like, I’ll write you a proper long love letter and do you some examples. Gentle and wise and honest and brave. Everything a good person should be.” Sherlock sighed, and I could have sworn I felt a tear drop onto my chest. I stroked his hair, and he cuddled me a little tighter. 

“This is the part I wanted most,” Sherlock said presently into my chest. “This little confessional. Being held. I used to picture it. Did you picture it?”

I swallowed, “Yeah. Tried not to. But. Yeah.”

Sherlock nuzzled me, squeezed me, “What did you picture? Tell me.” 

“I thought about. How heavy you’d be. What your hair would smell of. I thought of. Whether that mole on your throat is, ah, ticklish.” Sherlock shivered very encouragingly, and I wrapped one of his short curls round my finger, “Like the sound of that, do you? Are you ticklish, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shivered again, “I’ll never tell you. You’re going to have to experiment and find out.” 

“I’ll become a leading expert in Sherlock Holmes’ ticklish places,” I said, trying out a little experiment involving Sherlock’s hipbone. 

He squirmed very conclusively, “I look forward to reading your papers, John.” 

“Believe me, that is not how I intend to deliver the results of my research.”

“Then I look forward to it even more. You’ll be an expert in all my particular crevices, I’m sure.” 

“I’ll be an expert in every bit of you I can get my hands on,” I kissed his hair. 

Sherlock kissed my chest, “A new branch of science.” 

“Maybe I’ll found a university.”

Sherlock giggled into my skin for a moment, then gave me a prompting sort of squeeze, “Tell me a pretty good night, John. I’m nearly done for.”

“A pretty good night?” I kissed him. “'Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast.'” 

Sherlock yawned, “That was pretty enough, but. Say it in your own words.”

“My own words, mm?” I pet his hair, stroked down the back of his neck. “Good night, Sherlock. See you in the morning.” 

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed in serene approval and gave me one last bleary kiss, “Perfect.”


End file.
